


At Stud

by Shayvaalski



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gay Sex, Horses, M/M, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Trans Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 03:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: They’re at the barn because this is the barn where Mycroft keeps his hunters. Well. On paper, they’re at this barn because three mares have dropped some remarkably un-pureblood looking foals and Sherlock has some alarmingly specialist skills that makes him the best man for the job, but the reason they’re actually here is because Mycroft likes the way the head groom does her job and doesn’t wish to introduce even the slightest risk to her employment.





	At Stud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellipsisaspired](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ellipsisaspired).



> Terrifically, terrifyingly late, but hopefully worth it! Contains sex between a trans man and a cis man.

All of the Navigator bloodline horses bite, which John finds out the hard way his first day on the job. They're not big horses, which is what fools him; not the leggy English warmbloods he's used to, with their big ears and calm dark eyes and their shoulders as high as his head, but some smallish breed he doesn't recognize, like an Arabian but without the dish to the nose. That's all he has time to see before teeth snap centimeters from his shoulder, and somebody grabs him by the collar and hauls him back.

"Fucking watch it." The man releases him, scowling. He's very tall, with brown skin and loosely curled black hair cut short. "Didn't you see the goddamn signs?"

He points. John, in the middle of quickly straightening his shirt and gathering breath to shout about being manhandled, looks. Not only are there signs, all of them in stark red on white, in several languages including what looks like Hindi, there is a red line on the floor. It is exactly even with the horse's outstretched nose, and stretches some ways down the barn aisle, covering at least four stalls. As he looks another horse, his stall equally well-signed, thumps into his door, neck stretching, teeth bared -- coming just short of a woman in black jodhpurs, who flips two fingers without looking and keeps going.

"You gotta be new," the man says, and casually approaches the same horse that apparently has it in for John and everyone else. He slips a leather halter over its head, and the horse's ears come forward, inward-curved, almost touching each other. John, frowning, starts to turn away; there's no point having any sort of conversation with someone that willing to allow such bad behavior. He'd thought this was the kind of stables that encouraged even the stud horses to be well-mannered; certainly the stallion he'd handled this morning during Sherlock's initial interview with the barn owner had been friendly enough, if somewhat hot and bouncy.

Out of the corner of his eye as he walks away, John sees the man unbolt the stall door and lead out a black mare with four white feet, head and tail held high.

Despite his warnings, he appears to have no trouble at all.

 

\--

 

They’re at the barn because this is the barn where Mycroft keeps his hunters. Well. On paper, they’re at this barn because three mares have dropped some remarkably un-pureblood looking foals and Sherlock has some alarmingly specialist skills that makes him the best man for the job, but the reason they’re actually here is because Mycroft likes the way the head groom does her job and doesn’t wish to introduce even the slightest risk to her employment. John can’t say he blames the man. The groom — Anthea — has a way with both horses and staff that has them eating out of her hand within twenty minutes, and even though she’s not really John’s type he has a go, just to say he tried. Sherlock of course noticed nothing, too busy prowling the aisles and having a brief row with his brother over the fit of Mycroft’s best hunter’s jumping boots. Theoretically the case is under the jurisdiction of the Pony and Cob Society, but when they made no headway — and really, shouldn’t they be better at this kind of thing — and Mycroft began to lean on them, they’d done what they always did with cases where they didn’t know where to start: they gave it to Sherlock, with Greg Lestrade from Breeding & Welfare for a minder and John for a vet. Which the older Holmes had known they’d do, of course.

But then Lestrade leads out the first mare and John stops thinking about the lengths Mycroft will go to in order not to disturb his horses, because the foal is so — startling. The mare is a handsome little Section B Welsh, dapple gray, her mane falling charmingly over her eyes in the way of Welsh ponies. John has seen purebred Section B foals this age before, and they’re always elegant and small-hoofed, with tiny ears almost vanishing in their already-impressive forelocks, not much bigger than a sheepdog. Sherlock makes a tiny interested noise. Even at two months, there is too much leg on this foal. He’s nearly as tall as his mother, and doesn’t have the stocky roundness that makes the Welsh such a reassuring mount for children. John learned to ride on a Welsh pony. He’s not thin, but he’s ribby, angular, in the way of —

“He’s half Thoroughbred.” Sherlock produces an apple from his pocket and offers it to the mare. “Not at all wise in this direction. A pony sire would have been preferable, and a horse dam. Not even a quality Thoroughbred; I doubt he won a race in his life. No depth to the heart at all, and those hocks are shameful. Who was the intended sire?”

“Cadlan Valley Buzby,” Moll says, glumly. Unlike the second and third mares, still in their paddocks, Fancy was the barn owner’s personal horse, and Moll — who handled stud selection and breeding — was in even hotter water than Anthea. The foal had been meant for the owner’s daughter.

Sherlock has managed to catch the colt’s interest by now, and he examines the leggy little thing from one side, then the other. “I imagine that cost a pretty penny.”

“A season’s worth of show fees and a new saddle. And that’s not counting the other two.”

“I suppose you’re already aware you’ve been terribly careless.”

She flushes. They’ve worked with Moll before, in her other life performing necropsies for the RSPCA, and she’s always had trouble with her words around Sherlock. Good at her job, though. Very good. And previously very good at this one too.

She answers, and Sherlock keeps on with his needling; but John, looking past them, stops listening. He’s heard it before, and anyway, they’re being watched from the next ring over; a tall dark man holding a fine black horse, saddled and bridled and waiting for someone. It's the horse John recognizes first, with her four white feet -- the same mare who'd tried so hard to take a chunk out of him -- and then he remembers the man too, his big hands and worried scowl. He's not scowling now; neither does the horse have her ears back. They're both just standing, the mare swishing her tail, shifting her feet, and John knows they're waiting for somebody because there's no way such a tall man rides with stirrups that short.

And he's right. As Sherlock moves on to examining the whorls of hair on the foal's forehead and withers, John watches another man appear, pulling on his riding gloves as he strides up. The mare's ears prick forward and there's a moment where, to John, her body language says _recognition, pleasure, familiarity._ Then the ears pin and she squeals, dancing in place, as the second man -- smaller, lighter-skinned -- laughs and laughs. One hind hoof lashes out, but it misses both men by a mile, and John blinks. It's rare to see a horse pretend savagery, but that's clearly what she's doing -- holding back, her teeth hidden.

The tall man throws the reins over the mare's neck, then tosses the rider up after them. As the mare trots off, stretchy and forward, the man on the ground glances away from her and over towards the Welsh and her foal.

John pulls his eyes away, a little too late. He's still staring fixedly at Sherlock and Moll -- Moll with her arms crossed, scowling, Sherlock with the foal nosing around his pockets -- when a half-familiar low voice says almost in his ear, "We all had a good laugh when that colt popped outta his dam."

He jumps. Next to him the tall brown man grins and sticks out his right hand to shake.

"Sorry. I walk quiet. Sebastian Moran. Seb. Your man there get dragged in to save Hooper's job?"

"He's not my -- " John stops, sighs, and starts over. "Yes, he did."

"Good. Moll and Thea know their shit. Be a shame if they got canned, and I know my boss'd be pissed." He jerks his chin towards the black mare and the man.

"You're a groom?"

"More or less. I do some of the breeding work too -- go home and check out the studs every year or so, maybe pick out a foal that looks good. Marwaris aren't so common in the UK, and the boss likes ‘em purebred. Handle the importing." He shrugs. "You?"

"Veterinary Surgeon." John does _not_ say 'sounding board' or 'sidekick', but they feel unusually appropriate today, with Sherlock grandstanding more than average.

"Army?"

"Uh -- yes. Five years. Caught a piece of shrapnel." He knocks the top of his right thigh with a closed fist, which isn’t entirely accurate but close enough. "I can still ride alright but they sent me home. What gave me away?"

The big man shifts his weight, and then suddenly, fluidly, he's standing ramrod-straight with his feet hip-width apart, fingers of one hand linked around the opposite wrist, chin raised; then it vanishes again and Seb is just a tall slouching groom again.  "Parade rest," he says with a grin. "You were standin' like a soldier."

“You’re good at that.”

“Better be. Eight years in Her Majesty’s service.” He spits on the ground. “Got pretty good at shooting but I’m better with a horse. Met Jim — ” and Seb points his chin again towards man and mare “ — after they kicked me out. Happened to be working at a Marwari stud. Took me home along with the fillies.”

John has nothing to say to this, but Seb doesn’t seem to mind, just frowns thoughtfully across the ring, looking at nothing in particular. Then, abrupt, he adds, “They’ll be a while, if he’s looking at the surprise babies. Come see my lads.”

And he turns on his heel. John stares after him for a flummoxed few seconds — and then follows, as quickly as he can. Sherlock won’t notice, he’s too busy expounding; John would much rather look at horses. They pass by the hunters, then the rest of the Welsh ponies and cobs, out of the big boarders’ barn and into the smaller staff barn, which is neat as a pin but much older, the ceiling low, the walls rough stone smoothed over with whitewash and lime. John’s own shaggy pony is here. She whickers as they walk past; it’s Seb who pauses first to pat her nose.

“Yes, lass, hello,” he says, then adds over his shoulder, “I think she smells the desert on me, don’t you, pet? She looks like the horses I saw in — ”

“Afghanistan.”

“Yeah. And the bridle was the same.”

“I know,” John says, with some amusement. “She’s mine. I’ve got the saddle hanging up around the corner.” He reaches out too, scrubbing his knuckles against the mare’s forehead. “She’s called Mazal. Used to play buzkashi, now she’s just spoiled.”

“Fancy that.” Seb’s gaze rests on John a long few seconds. “Well. She’s a sweetheart. C’mon.”

They pass four stalls. Most of the staff horses were older, past their competitive best, but still mostly warmbloods and sport horses, purebreds — the two geldings at the end of the barn, thrusting their heads out to reach for Seb, are not.

“ _Hello_ , lads,” he says with obvious pleasure, letting them lip at his hands. Both geldings are massive, with huge heads, whiskers unclipped, manes roached. To John’s eyes, they have unusually good bone; he wants to get a look at their hooves, their legs.

“Brumbies,” Moran says. “Jim — boss has his hand in horses in all the Commonwealth countries, most of what used to be Empire, even America. Could’ve had one of them,” and he nods at the Irish hunter next door, all leg, certainly tall enough for Seb, “but fuck, look at these lads. The sport horses have the height, and they got pretty solid bone because of the draft in ‘em, but brumbies?” He pats the flaxen one’s neck. “You could gallop ‘em over fresh-plowed field and they wouldn’t put a foot wrong.”

John steps up, letting the bay gelding drop his nose into cupped hands, searching for the carrots or peppermints he always keeps on him. He feels Seb watching him, sideways, and John also feels the very start of a blush creeping up beneath his collar.

“Hey,” Seb says, and picks up a halter, a slow grin sliding across his face. “Want to take a ride?”

 

\--

 

With six stallions on the property, Sherlock decides to start local. One he rejects immediately for being too small; the other five he spends an entire day on. Not even Mycroft could compel the owners into DNA testing, but there was nothing stopping Sherlock and John from wandering down to the paddocks during turnout.

One of the stallions, John notes with interest, is another Marwari.

“It’s not that one, anyway,” he says, just as Sherlock vaults the fence. “Sherlock!”

“Oh, don’t _fuss,_ Watson, I’ve had plenty of experience with studs.”

An explosive, poorly-covered snort erupts from behind John; then a hand takes his elbow. “Let him get kicked,” Sebastian advises. “Or bit. It’ll teach him a lesson about fuckin’ with other people’s horses, and Asura can take care of himself. He really need you for this?”

“Well — no.”

“Good. Because Jim’s coming to shout at him, and you don’t want to be in range for that.” Seb hadn’t yet dropped his hand from John’s elbow, and now he slides it down his arm to grip his wrist, tugging gently. “C’mon. We’ll go hide out somewhere in the staff barn, ‘cause after he shouts at your man there, he’s gonna shout at _me.”_

“He’s not — ” John gets out before Sebastian interrupts him.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you last time, but it’s pretty fuckin’ clear he thinks you’re his, so I’m not that far wrong, am I? Let’s _go_ , Johnny.”

He gives in. At almost a full foot taller, Seb could drag him if he wanted, and it’s easier to be led. And also, there’s something almost childishly fun about it, bolting away from trouble when there’s little to no consequence — he’s run with Sherlock before, but the last time there’d been a dog on their heels, and before that, a body in front of them. Before he’d taken this job, John could not have dreamed that a stolen horse could lead to murder, but Sherlock had changed everything.

“Up here.” Seb releases John’s wrist when they stumble together into the dimness of the barn, and swings easily up the hayloft ladder.

“Are you _mad?”_

“Nah. Jim doesn’t give a second thought to where shit comes from, haylofts’re below him.” Halfway up, he pauses and looks thoughtful. “He does throw a goddamn fit about hay quality, though.”

“No, I mean — ” John gestures up at him. “It’s a bit of an overreaction, isn’t it? We’re a bit old to be hiding out from people.”

Sebastian lets go of the ladder with one hand and leans back. He’s all long lines and shallow curves, breeches riding low over sharp hipbones and loose shirt askew, some kind of scar tissue just showing on his shoulder.

“Look, Johnny,” he drawls out. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey tucked away up here and he ain’t your man, so just climb the _damn_ ladder, will you?”

 

\--

 

“I thought you said you got shot.”

“No, I caught shrapnel.” John passes back the bottle. The staff hayloft feels comfortably small, and Sebastian has clearly spent enough time up here to make his own little hollow, shored up with bales on three sides. There’s an old horse blanket to keep hay out of shirt collars, and, of course, the whiskey. “Much less impressive but just as painful. Hip and shoulder, and I was lucky it wasn’t much worse.”

Seb grunts. “You’re too fucking relaxed about it,” he says. “I got shot, I would still be bitching. And getting drinks bought for me.” He picks up a handful of hay, separates three strands, and begins to braid them together. John hasn’t seen him stop moving once since they got up here. “Not that I don’t already trade on the scars I have.”

And he winks. The braid in his hands grows another inch.

“From the war?”

“Nah. I got off scott-free from that. Hang on.”

Sebastian finishes the braid and ties it off with another strand. Then he pulls off his shirt, heedless of the hay that immediately covers it as he tosses it aside, and nods towards his own chest. John opens his mouth, then shuts it, caught between physical reaction and professional interest; he’s a vet, yes, but injuries on mammals have a lot in common. It’s how he can say, after a breathless moment,

“That isn’t — you can’t have gotten that close to a big cat on purpose.”

“I sure as shit didn’t mean to.”

“And you walked _away?”_

“It was a near thing.” Sebastian touches the huge, slightly-shiny scar lightly with his right fingertips. The thing starts almost at his collarbone, high on his left shoulder, drags across his chest and ends, only slightly shallower, at the bottom of his ribcage on the opposite side. Faintly visible beneath it are older, healed marks, man-made or at least man-inflicted, but they’re hard to focus on beneath the shocker that overlays them. Seb stretches, rolls his scarred shoulder experimentally; John notices that while the scar pulls, it doesn’t seem to restrict his range of motion. He must have worked hard at it, at keeping the skin supple.

“What happened?”

“After the Army — well, after a shitton of things, but mostly after the Army — I went back to India, where my ma’s from.” He leans back against the blanket. “Well, not exactly where my ma’s from, we’re Tamil, but the same country, fuck it. The Indian Forestry Service was hiring so I thought, what the hell, and I took a job. They had me down in the Sundarbans.” At John’s blank look he explains, “They’ve got man-eaters down there. Tigers.”

“ _Damn_.”

“Fucking right. Anyway, they’re thriving — off the endangered species list and everything, but once in a while one makes real trouble, which is why I was up a tree with a rifle a few years back.” Sebastian makes a rueful face. “Winged her, didn’t I, and was fool enough to go after her; but you know what it feels like, chasing death around. It’s a fucking thrill. Can’t help yourself.”

“I was only a veterinarian.”

“Yeah, but you decided to be a vet in the Army. Don’t fuck around.”

John has nothing to say to that.

“Followed her into a drain. Fucking _stupid._ I was lucky I got off a killing shot _before_ she got me, or I’d be dead.” Sebastian leans over and rummages for his shirt. John makes a small noise of objection, which gets a chuckle out of Seb.

“You can have a closer look later,” he says, low. “There’s plenty of time. Your man’ll be looking for you.”

“He’s _not_ my man.”

Sebastian laughs again, and sweeps hay-flecked curls off his forehead as he gets up. “Sort of what I’m counting on, ain’t it?”

 

\--

 

"Hey."

"Hey." John straightens up, gently setting down Fína's hoof as he does so. The little Icelandic, who belongs to another of the owners' indeterminable number of children, whuffles at his pockets. She has a good nose; John hands her a carrot nub before looking at Sebastian.

Sebastian has a distant look, almost a frown, on his face, which clears as soon as John makes eye contact.

"How's the great sperm search going?"

"I _really_ wish you wouldn't call it that."

He chuckles, and ruffles a hand over Fína’s mane. Lurking behind Sebastian, another of the wiry Navigator horses pins his ears, jealous of the affection. John had winkled the line out of Seb some days back ("Named 'em after himself, didn't he? But at least they all have proper Hindi names. Insisted on that.") and it still doesn't match up for him with the vicious looks they give everything on two legs.

"Yeah, well, that's what it is, Johnny. What's wrong with the wee lass?"

"Bruised sole. Nothing that won't mend on its own, but you know how they are with the personal horses." He rolls his eyes.

"Sure. Nothing too fine for Fína frá Valstrýtu, huh?" He ruffles her mane with his big free hand. John snorts, but when he turns her it's gently, with as much care as he shows his own mare -- no matter what he's just said about her people. "Bet she was hardly even limping. Walk with me?"

"Alright, but keep that beast of yours on a short lead."

"Ah, he's fine." Seb keeps rough sugar cubes, tablespoon sized, in _all_ his pockets, and now he slips the bay one. "You just gotta bribe 'em, really."

"I'll believe you once they stop snapping their teeth at me."

"Coward." But he sounds almost fond. The lead rope swings in a short arc between him and the young stallion, slack, but the horse doesn't budge from just behind Sebastian's shoulder as they walk down the aisle between paddocks. "So Holmes isn't making much progress?"

"Some. We know it's a few different studs -- though studs might be flattery, since you can tell all the sires are scrubs at best. The foals should make alright Pony Club horses, but they won't sell for anything like they were meant to."

"Huh. Well, nothing wrong with a scrub. My lads aren't much more than, and your lass certainly isn't."

"I'm a believer in hybrid vitality myself, but not with the hocks on the Welsh cross, or the neck on the Warmblood mix."

"Those are some _terrible_ hocks," Sebastian agrees, mild, as he opens the gate to his charge's paddock. Unlike some of the horses John knows, the stallion doesn't rush Seb or push him, and waits until his halter is off to bolt off bucking gleefully. "What're you meant to be doing?"

"Nothing much. Sherlock'll be back in a few hours with some genetic results."

"Well. Want to be doing something?"

John almost swallows his tongue. Two nights ago, Sherlock had made what passed for a delicate inquiry about Sebastian's interest in him, which John had clumsily dodged. Since then, he's barely seen the other man. Even in normal circumstances that would be worrying -- when not under direct supervision, Sherlock tends to go off the rails -- but when he's jealous things escalate. But. _But_.

"Yeah."

"Good. Jim's out. Let's go back to mine."

"No hayloft?"

Sebastian laughs, and shoots the bolt on the gate. "Nah. I've tried that. You don't want hay the places I've gotten it." He adds a clip; his horses are clever with their mouths. "Trust me. Only desperate teenagers fuck in haylofts."

That knocks John into silence. Seb leans back against the fence and blinks, long lashes over gray-blue eyes, the color of a storm.

"If you're up for that," he adds, casual as anything. "Don't want to assume. But I figure -- you took a good long look at me, last week, and seemed like you wanted a longer one. Maybe more than a look. You tell me if I read you wrong, Johnny, but I don't reckon I did."

"You didn't." John runs a hand through his hair, heedless of the dirt and horse sweat he's covered in. Seb's covered in it too. Experience suggest that after ten minutes or so neither of them will notice.

"Come on then." His voice is low in his chest, resonant. "Before either of us finds an excuse."

"Yeah," John says again, and swallows to get his voice back properly. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

"Good _man_. C'mon. There's some talking we'll need to do first and I'd rather get that out of the way quick." Sebastian reaches out and slides his fingers around John's wrist. "Nothing major. Usual stuff. Won't take any time at all." He steps back, so that his arm stretches out and John's arm follows it; and then John steps forward to follow him. He gets a grin for that.

"What kind of stuff?"

"Fun stuff, I promise." Another step, drawing him along, fingers soft against John's pulse point. His thumb strokes the back of John's hand. "Well, definitely _associated_ with fun. Fun-adjacent. Come on, Johnny, or do you always walk this slow?”

"Fuck you," he says, and closes the distance. Or he tries to -- Sebastian, long-legged, turns on his heel and starts down the path. Even without being able to see his face, John can feel him grinning.

"That's the idea." He glances over his shoulder. "Or the other way 'round. I ain't real bothered."

John has no articulate response to that, to the strain of his neck, the clearly-defined muscles of it; instead he just lengthens his stride. He only manages to catch Sebastian when they're well clear of the paddocks, down past the staff barn, coming up the path to staff housing.

"You're not telling me your _boss_ lives here too." Arm's reach, or almost.

"Nah. He just hates not being able to bother me at all hours. Sleeps on the couch sometimes, if there's a foal due." He reaches for the doorknob.

 _There_.

John catches him, hand on waist sliding around to hip, and then down the sharp line of it, belt, belt buckle, zipper. Seb yelps, but it sounds like delight.

"In public, Johnny, I misjudged you." He twists like an eel, sliding away from John's fingers, bumping the door with an elbow to swing it inwards. "When there's a bed just upstairs, honestly, have some control."

And then he reaches out, catches John by the jawline, and kisses him hard, right there in the open door.

"You should know now," he says, almost against John's mouth and while John is still staggered with the heat of him, "that my cock lives in a bedside drawer. Before I fuck you with it. That gonna work for you?"

"Uh." He blinks, trying to get the blood back into his brain long enough to parse through what Seb's saying. He thinks he can guess his meaning well enough to answer; mostly he just wants to strip Sebastian out of his clothes, down to the skin and the scars. All of them. "Yes?"

"Good." His fingers are still on John's jawline, almost possessive. "Lost your chance to throw a fit, then. Let's go up."

"You're the one not moving."

"Nonsense. Stopped right there, didn't you? It'd be rude to just run off." Seb smirks, then takes a step back, leaving not quite enough space, so that John has to slide against him in order to get in. He smells like horses, and beneath that like warm clean skin, neatsfoot oil, fresh hay.

The stairs are almost underfoot, the front hall basically nonexistent. There's just enough room for kicked-off shoes and dirty coats and a narrow door, which John guesses leads to a kitchen. Sebastian toes off one boot, then the other, balancing himself against the wall. There's something weirdly intimate about it. John just watches him, as he shoves them into a corner and throws his flannel on a hook, until he's standing in his gray wool socks and white undershirt.

"Boots off," he says, after a few seconds. John has to undo his, he can't just get them off, so he's forced to break eye contact, crouch, free laces from hooks until he can stand in his own socks, a full eight inches shorter than Sebastian. He'd already known he was shorter, of course; but standing here with no excuse of heel height rather brings it home.

Seb jerks his chin perhaps an inch to the side, towards the stairs, not taking his eyes off John.

"Flat's not much. Reckon you had worse in service, and the bed's pretty nice. Well. It's not actively bad, which is almost the same thing." He grins. "Doubt we'll notice."

John has a flash -- vivid, overwhelming -- of Sherlock _not noticing_ ; of him asleep sprawled out on a window seat that's too short for him, in an empty stall, in John's bed instead of his own. He blinks. He has to blink twice to wash it away.

Before it can creep back John surges forward, his chest meeting Sebastian's with a dull thump, nearly bowling him over onto the stairs. He gets his hands against the other man's hips, then slides them up over Sebastian's sides, onto his shoulder, into his hair. A low noise meets his touch.

"Enough with the stairs," Seb says, and snags John by the front of his sweater. He hauls, playful but hard, then backs up a step. They manage, somehow, to tumble up them together, ending at the top with the sweater left halfway. Most of the second floor is a bedroom, with a tiny parlor adjacent, all the furniture sturdy and outsized. It's nowhere near as nice as the bed & breakfast Sherlock had all but taken over last month, but it looks comfortable -- and the bedroom has a door. So who _cares_ what it looks like.

Sebastian already has his shirt off.

In full light -- not the half-darkness of the hayloft -- John can get a proper look, and he likes what he sees. There's barely an inch of Seb not marked, but it suits him; manmade scars in straight lines, very slightly slanted, tiger-inflicted more ragged, crossing over the others. To John's eye the surgery scars are barely older than the others, one of them almost obscured by the slashes.

"Ruined my doc's good work," Sebastian says, following his gaze then looking up. "But what the fuck ever." He reaches behind him, again without breaking eye contact, and sweeps the duvet off the bed. Unmade, it looks almost indecent. "Gonna strip off, or you want me to give you a hand?"

"I can manage." John starts to struggle out of his teeshirt; by the time it's off, Seb is crouched behind the bed, rummaging in the dresser drawer. Awkward, John just stands there for a few seconds; but then he starts to skin out of his trousers, determined to take the action he's been wanting to for weeks. It seems to take forever, and then there's his bloody socks, but eventually, he's barefoot on the smooth wood floor.

" _Hey_ there," Sebastian drawls, straightening up enough to rest his forearm on the mattress. "Look at you."

John shifts his weight, very aware of the muscles of his thighs, the slight curve of his belly -- he's closer to forty than twenty, and though riding keeps him fit, it can't stop middle age entirely. But the small appreciative noise Seb makes as he resettles evenly onto both feet goes a long way towards making him forget that, at least for the moment.

"C'mere." Seb straightens up onto his knees, palms flat on the mattress, leaning forward. "Come to bed. We've got plenty of time but not all damn day."

John can't decide whether to come around or climb over -- he wavers, then half-scrambles onto the bed. Sebastian moves to meet him, lithe as a panther. Somehow he'd gotten his jeans off too; his pants are still on or possibly, John realizes with a greedy start as Sebastian knocks him down and straddles his leg, back on.

He's hard, beneath them.

John's own cock twitches, and he breathes out, reaches up to pull Seb down. The man comes willingly, keeping some of his weight on his elbows but dropping much of it on John. He lowers his head, nips at John's neck. His skin is very warm, nearly hot, and without his clothes on it smells more strongly of only itself, oil and hay down to a tantalizing hint. Struck silent but wanting all the same, he arches up into Sebastian, running his hands over his back. Seb's back is smooth, except for the way his muscles knot as he pulls away.

"Now Johnny," he says, hoarse. "Tell me you ain't going all shy."

"No." John hooks an ankle over Seb's calf. One hand wanders. Fingers run over the waistband of Seb's pants, then slide beneath. His arse is as muscled as his back, to John's private satisfaction. "Not at all."

"Good." Sebastian leans in again, mouth sliding over John's. He kisses like he moves, never quiet or still -- and he kisses with the promise of teeth below his lips. Not frightening, but nothing like what John has experienced before. He's beginning to think that despite what he thinks of as his wild uni days he's been rather boring up until now.

More than half his hand is in Seb's pants by this point, and it occurs to him to wonder just what kind of arrangement he's going to encounter. "Bedside drawer" had given John some vague memories of his only gay friend as a teenager oversharing about her strap-on, which he had actively repressed even as he heard it, but there's no harness here, no leather or buckles -- Sebastian is definitely hard and long against his thigh, there's no doubt about that. He just wants to know _how_ , and there's no time like the present to find out.

"Fuck, yeah," Seb says against his mouth as John slips his hand sideways to curl his fingers around Seb's cock. "Just like that, Jesus."

John tugs; Sebastian whines. Wriggles against him, nudging nose into neck, mouth busy against his skin. His cock is heavy in John's hand, pleasantly warm, and resists when he tugs again, a little harder, experimenting. Breath catches in Seb's lungs; they're so close together that John feels it happen. He slides his fingers up, then down, up again and then down a little further to where Sebastian's cock vanishes into curly hair and then he understands, feels the wetness on his thumb; and his own breath stutters.

"Fucking great, right?" Seb ask with a grin, his teeth brushing over John's collarbone. "Brilliant bloody design, I can feel everything you do -- fuck." His neck arches as John twists his wrist and draws his fingers upwards. "Yeah, Christ, more of that."

"What about if I sucked it?"

The noise Sebastian makes is really more of a yelp than a whine, but equally beguiling.

"Fuck," he says, conversational. "Yeah, that'd be just fine, Johnny."

He twines his fingers in John's hair, tugging at the strands like a plea even though he's the one on top and will have to move for the other man to go anywhere. His other hand brushes over John's chest. Then down. Down again. Works in between them. John sucks in air through his nose, eyes sagging closed for a long moment.

"You want I should move?" Seb's voice is low. "Let you get down there? Or you want I should keep going?"

John laughs, soundless.

"Move," he says, and is rewarded by another ragged sound.

Seb rolls off him, a boneless sprawl all over the bedclothes, and shucks out of his pants. The movement isn't terribly suave and it certainly isn't smooth, but John can't look away. The brown little room fades into the background. Sebastian is very lean, with muscular thighs; his ass is better so no different. His hips are a deep vee, leading to his cock. John clears his throat.

"Sit up against the headboard," he says. "Unless you'd rather I be on my knees.”

"Either way, Johnny, I won't complain."

John hesitates, then sets his palm against Sebastian's shoulder — the scars are raised and smooth beneath his hand — and pushes him gently back until he's slouched against the wall. He straightens himself up as John slides down his body.

“There y'go," he murmurs, and fists his hand in John's hair. It only takes that hint of encouragement for John to take a long deep draft of air and lean down.

Seb tastes, at first, like high-quality silicone, but then John catches his scent, warm and deep and wet. He takes shallow breath after shallow breath through his nose, eyes sagging shut as he swallows. Above him Sebastian makes small sounds, fingers tightening and loosening by turns. It doesn't take long to find a rhythm, swallowing, choking just enough to enjoy it, enough to hear Sebastian hum with pleasure, pulling back. Eventually his fingers too seek out the crease of Sebastian's thigh, slide down to his ass. The sound he makes is deeply gratifying —  low enough that John almost feels it rather than hears it.

He lifts his head, finally. "You got any lube, Moran?"

"No, l invited you up here without a plan. Course I got lube, Johnny-boy. Second drawer down.”

John reaches out without looking, groping blindly; he’s unwilling to raise his head far from Seb's cock, and the table is close. He can see just a flash of the big man’s grin out of the corner of one eye before his fingers curl around the lube. Sebastian wriggles down a little, giving him better access.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Not set up like you, but _fuck_ if I don’t still enjoy it.”

His meaning’s plenty clear. John appreciates the tacit confirmation; he’s handled enough set-ups to feel confident in most situations but everyone’s different. And he’s been guessing, at least a little.

Sebastian’s hips jerk as John works a finger into him and crooks it.  

“Jesus fuck,” he says, conversational, muscles going slack. John watches him, taking into account all the tiny movements of his body, before he pushes in further. There’s the smallest arch of back. A hand grasping on nothing.

After a little while, he adds another finger; this time he also moves a little faster. Not roughly, _never_ roughly; John is too much a veterinarian to handle anyone or thing with roughness. But certainly with rising confidence, and when Sebastian hisses, “Another, Johnny, and then you can hurry up and _fuck me,_ ” he obliges so fast he all but falls over himself.

Sebastian’s plan had also provided condoms. While John fishes one out and rips it open, the other man props himself up on his elbows again to watch. He still looks too big for the bed, too big for the room — a little larger than life, his outlines drawn too strongly for his background. Maybe it’s the just the pounding beat of blood in John’s mouth and cock and skull that makes him stand out so strongly, and maybe it’s just Sebastian, his borderline offensive self-confidence and casual sprawl.

Fucking him is the blur all good sex is. Flashes of moments; their chests sliding together as he rolls John, the slight friction of scars overwhelmed by sweat; Seb going tight around him, hand on his own cock and head thrown back; teeth against his collarbone. There will be marks in the morning. John can’t bring himself to mind.

 

\--

 

After, sprawled out in bed together, Sebastian reaches over to the bedside table and checks his watch.

"You have somewhere to be?"

"Nah. Just seeing when the boss might be back. He gets stroppy if he horse he wants to ride isn't out."

John clears his throat.

“Seems like he gets stroppy a lot.”

“Understatement of the year.” Seb flashes him a grin. “Don’t get yourself worked up. He’s got his redeeming qualities. The money’s good, for one.”

“It can’t be _that_ good. You’re living in staff quarters.”

“It’s convenient to the horses.” Sebastian stretches, showing off. “Which means it’s convenient for himself. And I don’t mind. I don’t need a whole lot more than this.”

“But — “

“Johnny, you really gonna spend your time complaining about my digs when I’m buck-naked in front of you?” He props himself up on one elbow. “If I’d known that was what you were into I would have rented a shitty hotel. Let you _really_ get your rocks off.”

John shoves him, open-palmed and casual, and is about to roll him over again when his phone goes off.

“That your man?”

He fishes the phone from where it fell an hour ago, squints at the number. “Yeah.” It stops ringing, then starts again, insistent. John sighs.

“Speaking of being convenient,” he says, rolling out of bed. His pants are tangled up in his jeans, which are tangled up with Seb’s; it takes a few minutes to get them on, a few more minutes to find his shirt. “He won’t quit until I — “

A text chime. John glances down and nearly swallows his tongue.

_Downstairs. Come at once._

Sebastian, who had followed him up, gets an inscrutable look on his face as he pulls a clean pair of jeans out of the dresser. He puts them on bare. “What’s up?”

“Oh — nothing. Just Sherlock being himself.” John doesn’t bother with his socks, just stuffs them in his pocket. “I’ll see you tomorrow for a ride?”

“Yeah,” says Sebastian, standing there in bare feet, his scars plain in the afternoon light from the window. “Sure.”

 

\--

 

“ _What_ ,” John all but snarls as he comes out the door. Sherlock just narrows his no-color eyes, taking in unlaced boots and disheveled hair, then turns on his heel and begins to stride down the driveway. John follows him, refusing to be cowed.

“Enjoy yourself?”

“Sherlock, don’t be a git. What’s going on?”

They’re already most of the way back to the barn before Sherlock answers. His voice is very flat. “The person,” he says, “who made the switch was sloppy enough in covering his tracks that it’s like he _wanted_ to be found. Or like he wanted my attention. Once I had the genetics back, it was _child’s_ play to find the horses. Or what’s left of them, anyway; they went to the knacker’s. Of course they did, you saw those hocks — but the knacker keeps excellent records.”

“Which knacker?”

Sherlock tips his head back and snorts. “The local one, of course. And the ponies were local as well. As is the person responsible.”

“And who’s that?”

They’ve stopped next to one of the paddocks. Sherlock looks over at it, meaningfully; John follows his gaze but the field is empty.

Which is strange, because a few hours ago it had been full of snorting bay stallion.

“Do you remember,” Sherlock says in a low drawl, “the man who threw such a snit over his Marwari being a suspect?”

_Be a shame if they got canned, and I know my boss'd be pissed._

John opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He nods.

“Well.” Sherlock places a hand delicately on the unlatched gate. “It wasn’t _his_ stud, of course. Whatever else, his horses are very fine. But his money bought the ponies from auction, and paid for the trailer to get them here the night before the mares were due to be bred, and paid the knackerman to take them away after. Goodness knows how he managed to get the little beasts onto the property. Walked them from the road at midnight, I imagine — very cloak and dagger.

“Rather a funny thing. He might have chosen another butcher, or paid a little more to have the records lost. Or signed another name. Anything, really.” He allows himself a tiny smile. “Not that I wouldn’t have sniffed it out. But he made it so _easy.”_

John recognizes, with an uneasy prickle down his spine, the particular light in Sherlock’s eyes. He’s seen fixation before, smaller ones — tracing foreleg tiger-striping and bloody shoulders through lines, predicting the markings and temperment of a crop of foals — but never anything focused around a human, not a horse.

He doesn’t like it.

“Walk with me.”

They walk. There are a handful of paddocks empty that previously had been full; in his mind’s eye John can see the vicious-eared studs and long-toothed mares that had filled them, and can see too the pair of mild-eyed Brumby geldings. They are not in the fields, and they are not in the stalls. Their tack is gone. Not a sniff or a scent or a scrap remains.

When they come out of the barns again John turns, squinting against the setting sun towards the staff quarters. Nothing much to see; a woman coming down the lane, a slow car going up it.

He doesn’t know what he expected to see.

  



End file.
